The Beat Goes On
by Ms.GrahamCracker
Summary: An argument between Don and Charlie helps Alan deal with a painful memory


**Disclaimer; I do not own Numb3rs, it's characters or anything associated with the production of the television series. I earn no compensation for this work of fiction and there is no infringement intended. I do claim all original characters, created solely for this story, and all rights associated with them.**

**Warning; just for mild language, nothing graphic **

**Spoilers; maybe a little bit for second season "Protest"**

**A/N: This story came from a suggestion by ceeceecimarron. This is your dedication, little sister. **

**Summary: An argument between Don and Charlie helps Alan deal with a painful memory**

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**The Beat Goes On**

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Alan Eppes had a cold. The sniffling, sneezing, sore throat, coughing, stuffy head, aching, fever kind of cold. He usually breezed right through cold and flu season blithely immune to the nasty little germs. Long ago, he had made the decision to take care of himself and his health. He ate the right foods, he exercised as often as he could, he took vitamins and he led an active life. No doubt it was the active lifestyle that was his downfall. Between his business venture with Stan, his volunteer work at the shelter, the book club, bowling team, and golf outings, he had obviously caught something from someone who was less immune and less inclined to stay home and keep their germs to themselves.

He shuffled to the kitchen, his well worn and comfortable slippers making slussing noises as they traveled over the hard wood floor. He made himself a cup of herbal tea and added a dollop of honey. That would feel good to his sore, scratchy throat, he thought. Shivering slightly, he pulled his old sweater tighter around his shoulders and frowned again at the level of the voices coming from the garage. Alan rummaged through the small cabinet beside the refrigerator where they kept over the counter medicine and found the multi symptom cold remedy. He squinted his eyes to read the fine print. Yes, this one also took care of headaches due to cold. "Not the damn cold that's giving me a headache." he grumbled out loud.

After swallowing the medicine, he gathered his tea and a box of tissues and headed for the living room. He proceeded to make himself comfortable in his favorite chair, slipping an afghan over his legs. He sipped his hot tea and sighed. It was quiet in here. And he could certainly use some quiet. And some chicken soup. However, being that neither one of his sons had developed much talent in the kitchen when it came to anything resembling real cooking, that probably was not going to happen, unless he made it himself. Maybe later, he sighed again. 

The sound of the back door slamming and his son Don's angry voice broke him from his brief respite and he groaned, remembering where the headache had come from. His sons had both come through the front door a little over an hour ago, arguing, and they hadn't stopped yet. 

"I can't get a warrant on that Charlie! I need something more than one of your stupid analogies of pelicans and warm water currents!" Don's voice was loud and belligerent as they came into the dining room and Alan scowled in displeasure as his oldest continued his tirade. "Give me something that ties Savoy to McKinney and the drugs. I need evidence I can take to the DA. Not all this math gobbledygook you're feeding me."

The two of them had stopped at the dining room table, shifting through a stack of papers and files that belonged to the current case they were working on. 

Charlie, feeling frustrated and unappreciated snapped back. "I used all the data you gave me, Don. If the data is incorrect, the algorithm won't be able to give us anything more definite than a 20 percent probability." His eyes flashed angrily in defense of his math. "So don't take it out on me. Go yell at the people who gave you the incorrect data."

"Those people, Charlie," Don gritted his teeth and snarled, "are two undercover DEA agents who spent 8 months of their lives living and dealing with these scum. I think they know what they are talking about." He ran his hand across the back of his neck in frustration. "You know, Chuck, if you ever had to live in the real world, like the rest of us, you'd know that hard facts and procedures make things happen, not theories and . . . "

"Oh yeah?" Charlie interrupted, defensive, but wincing at the comeback that all but screamed elementary school. "If you weren't so focused on facts and your precious procedures, you'd be able to see, Don, that the probabilities here are. . ."

"I can't arrest a man on probabilities, Charlie!" Don shouted, throwing his hands in the air.

"That's enough!" Alan cried from his chair, wincing at the discomfort it caused in both his head and his throat. "Can't you two take this somewhere else and let me suffer in peace?"

"Well," Don responded to Alan's request by flashing dark, angry eyes at his brother. "with only a 20 percent probability, I sure as hell can't take it to court, can I, Chuck?"

Charlie's harsh reply came quickly, "I'll tell you where you can take it, Donald, and just what you can do with it."

" Oooooo, real mature, there Chuckie. Let's see if you can manage a big boy job and run this data again, and see if you can do it right this time."

They stormed out of the dining room, Charlie muttering sarcastically, "Same data, same results, Fed," and headed back to the garage with a handful of files that would hopefully provide new data. 

Alan sighed heavily. "Those boys are going to be the death of me yet. I wonder if the Wright brothers' father had as much gray hair as I do?" he thought grimly. "Even if he did, at least he had some quiet time while they were in Kitty Hawk testing their flying machine." He sneezed and shivered as a chill engulfed him."I swear every gray hair I have is from a fight those two have had.You wouldn't think brothers would fight so much."

The instant the last thought entered his head, a memory, so solid and strong he felt like he could reach out and touch it, assailed him. He remembered an argument he had had with his brother, Joel. 

He hadn't thought about that day in a long time.

Of his three brothers, Joel was the closest in age to Alan and they were very close growing up. They had fights, arguments, of course. They were brothers. They fought over their parents attention, baseball games, chores and the occasional girlfriend. They were typical sibling fights that were over by bedtime and forgotten the next day. Until that afternoon in 1968 when Joel, having just turned 20, stopped by to tell Alan he had joined the army. The argument that day had been different. It was not two young boys arguing over Mickey Mantel's chances of another record breaking home run, it was two grown men, each of them with strong beliefs and two completely different opinions about the escalating war in Vietnam. Things were said that day that were meant to be hurtful, meant to drive a wedge into a previously unbreakable relationship.

He recalled how Joel had stormed angrily out of the house that he and Margaret were renting, yelling something about being related to a damn hippie.

Alan reached into the pocket of his sweater and grabbed a tissue, holding it to his nose and mouth just in time to prevent the sneeze from spraying infectious germs throughout the room.

Maybe it was the unexpected memory of Joel, or maybe it was the "medicine head" feeling from the cold medicine, but Alan suddenly felt nostalgic. He stood up slowly and shuffled into the dining room, to the cabinet that stood against the wall and opened the bottom door. He pulled out the worn dark leather photo album, then dragged himself back into the living room. He chose the sofa this time and once he was comfortable, with the tissues, afghan and tea within reach, he opened the album to the first page.

Despite the chills and aches of the cold, he was filled with the warmth of good memories at the sight of the first picture. His parents, Jacob and Esther Eppes, were sitting on a metal glider that held a position of honor on the L-shape front porch of the family home. Around the couple sat their five children; Benjamin, the oldest, was 13 years old when the picture was taken by their Uncle Reuben. Hannah was next, 2 years younger than Ben, then Alan, himself, who was 8 years old that summer. Joel was six, and Miriam was just a year and a half younger. Finally, Amos, the baby, was two years old and sitting in Esther's lap. 

His eyes watered as he gazed at the picture. "Not crying." he grumbled to himself. "'s this damn cold." He plucked another tissue from the box and blew his nose loudly.

He sighed again, one that was filled with regret and thought again of the fight with Joel. Margaret was four months pregnant with Don that February. They had just returned home from a peaceful sit-in on the courthouse steps, protesting a proposed increase of U.S. troops being sent to Vietnam that summer, when Joel came by. He had been aghast when Joel told him he had joined the army and was leaving in two weeks for basic training. Nearly 4 decades later, the things they said to each other that day, still rang in his ears and he shivered again, pulling his sweater higher on the back of his neck.

He had felt betrayed. His own little brother was now going to be part of everything he and Margaret were protesting against; the terrifying death toll of both soldiers and civilians, the staggering amount of money the war was costing, and the lies they felt the American government was telling the people. How could he do that? How could he join the establishment and fight for a deceitful, unjust government in a war we shouldn't even be a part of?

Alan recalled turning to their father, Jacob, in desperation, hoping their stern Jewish patriarch could talk some sense into Joel. 

"Joel has to do what he feels is right. Just like you and Maggie do." Jacob had said. "I'm proud of you for speaking your mind, Alan. But, I am just as proud of Joel for following his heart."

Alan told Jacob about the fight and some of the horrible things that had been said. "I'm afraid, Dad, that we may have said so many awful things it may never be the same between us."

Jacob had smiled, years of parenting wisdom showing in his eyes, and spoke to Alan patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. "Alan. Your brothers. You and Joel have always fought. You always will. But, in the end your still brothers. Just because your brothers doesn't mean you have to feel the same way about everything. Let me tell you something you may not know. Your uncles Abraham and Ira couldn't agree on anything. Reuben and I were more sedate, more willing to compromise. Not Abe and Ira. They didn't understand each other and they fought over everything. Nearly drove our father crazy."

Alan sneezed into his tissue again, and smiled as he remembered the conversation with his father. Jacob

Eppes was not a talkative man and he very rarely spoke of his father, Levi Eppes. Levi was old country Jewish, having come over from Europe in the early 1900's with his family when he was just a boy. He was a hard, solemn man, self-composed and stubborn. "I remember," Jacob told Alan that day, "your grandfather, Levi, had had enough of Abe's and Ira's bickering one day and he sat all four of us down. Our father could be very intimidating, and we were sure we were all headed for the wood shed. But, that day, he told us the he had also fought with his brothers, Asher and Yussel, and how **his** father, Mordecai, admitted disagreeing with his. Your grandfather was a simple, hardheaded man who saw things in the simplest way possible. His entire philosophy of life was; "Things change. Things stay the same. And so it goes."

"You see, son, times change. Mankind's desire for an easier life, greater wealth, making everything bigger, better, faster, changes everything around you, except the one thing that shouldn't change, the one thing that can't change; family."

Before he had left that day, Jacob had convinced Alan to talk with Joel again, to work things out before he left for basic training. Many times over the years Alan thanked God that was the one piece of advise from his father that he listened to. The two tours of duty that Joel spent overseas during that war was terrifying enough, but at least he left on good terms with his brother. 

Alan was abruptly jarred from his memories when Don and Charlie reappeared, as loud and annoying as before. This time they ventured into the living room, Charlie heading for the round table in the foyer, and his laptop bag laying on it. As he rifled through it and grabbed a handful of papers he turned back to Don with a self satisfying smile and said smugly, "I told you the data was wrong."

Don was both sullen and cross. "Yeah, well don't trip over your enormous ego, there, hotshot. There's no way we could have known that both DEA agents had turned and were actually feeding us bogus information to protect McKinney. If Colby hadn't run across the bit of intel, we still wouldn't know."

"The math told us the pattern was wrong, Don, that something was missing. You should have listened to me."

"Oh, I forgot!" Dramatically, Don slapped his forehead. "You're the damn genius. I'm just the big dumb FBI agent who doesn't know anything."

"I never said that!" Charlie protested. " You're always putting words in my mouth."

"Well, at least my words make sense. You know, Charlie, we actually solve cases without your help once in a while. I'm not a complete idiot."

"There you go again. I never said you were. Sometimes, you're just so hard to talk to, Don. You know, you don't have to be so damn hard headed and stubborn." 

"_I'm_ stubborn?"

Alan watched Don and Charlie as they continued their argument, heading for the garage again, and he saw, not two men, but two young boys, fighting over a dirty baseball Charlie had found nearly 30 years ago. The family had gone on a picnic at a nearby park and 3 year old Charlie had found the torn ball lost among the azaleas. The memory was so vivid and real, Alan could almost feel the texture of the blanket they ate lunch on. He closed his eyes and could even remember the song that was playing on the little transistor radio Margaret had brought. It was one of their favorites. The Beat Goes On, by Sonny and Cher. They listened, relaxing in the warm sun, as they watched their sons debate the ownership of the ball. Don had declared that since Charlie was too young and didn't know anything at all about baseball, he should take possession of the ball, and proceeded to try to do just that. Not surprisingly, Charlie saw it differently and tried to maintain his grip on it. Eight year old Don discovered that day, as Alan had years before with Joel, that even though he was older and therefore, he claimed, wiser in the ways of the world, it didn't mean his little brother was going to back down if he felt he was right.

Alan plucked another tissue from the box just in time to cover another sneeze and the memory slipped away. In it's place, though, was a sudden epiphany that the essence of that thought provoking song on the radio that day was similar to where his memories were taking him.

Four generations of Eppes men, all strong, independent, and yes, stubborn. Each of them connected to his brothers through heritage, culture and environmental stimuli, and virtually defining the opposing phrases "sibling rivalry" and "family ties". Regardless of the era or location or fashions or current beliefs, certain aspects of life have always been constant. There has always been rich and poor, love and hate, war and peace. And brothers have always disagreed. It's what they share in common that has always kept them together. Granted, none of the previous Eppes siblings had the severe obstacle that his Donnie had had. His only brother, younger by 5 years, smarter than he could ever hope to be. With the help of a bureau psychiatrist, they themselves are just beginning to address some of the issues that came from that. They don't need a doctor to tell them, though, that through it all, through misunderstandings, indifference, resentment and jealously, they are still brothers; still family; and family ties don't change, even if everything else around you does. Because with family there is love, and with love there is forgiveness, understanding and acceptance.

Alan grumbled again, in misery, as he fumbled with the tissue box, drawing another tissue from it and blowing his nose. Reaching for the afghan, he wrapped it around his shoulders, drawing it together under his chin.

He shifted slightly on the sofa, raising the photo album and adjusting it on his lap. He turned the pages slowly, basking in the memories of loved ones and good times long gone. He let the feelings rush over him, comforting him, and in that relaxed state, he dozed, his head falling forward, his chin resting on his chest. Sometime later he jerked awake at the sound of the back door, and he cringed in anticipation of the loud voices again. 

Charlie came through the swinging door into the dining room first, followed closely by Don, who was opening his cell phone. They were both smiling. Charlie's head was turned slightly downward, and he was looking up at his brother through his long dark lashes. Don reached over and patted his brother on the shoulder and said, "Just a minute, Buddy. I want to call Megan and tell her. . ." He stopped abruptly and turned into the phone. "Hey, Megan. Yeah, we got it. Charlie found it. We have the proof and the evidence we need to get both McKinney and Savoy and shut down the whole operation. No, we're still at the house, but we'll be leaving in a minute. We'll meet you and the guys at the office. Hey, I'll tell you what, we'll even bring sandwiches." Don's lighthearted banter stopped and as he listened he turned a fond gaze towards his brother. When he spoke again, his voice was low, full of meaning. "Yeah, we _are_ lucky to have his help. Okay, we'll see you in a few."

"You know," Charlie said, obvious affection and recognition in his voice, "it was your suggestion to cross reference their banking accounts with the deposits in the two fake off shore accounts that gave me the additional data I needed to make it work."

Don smiled, an awkward grin and shrugged his shoulders, dismissively. "Yeah, well, bottom line, Buddy, we got 'em."

"And it was your idea to check those accounts against Savoy's money laundering scheme that let my algorithm find the pattern of drug deals and locations."

"Don't be so stubborn, Chuck." Don laughed, his eyes disappearing into crinkles."Trying to be nice here." Then he added, "Seriously. You did good, Charlie. I'm proud of you." Don's hand reached out and squeezed Charlie's shoulder. "We make a good team, little brother." He smiled, then added mischievously, "Kind of like Batman and Robin."

Charlie looked up at that and smiled. "Or Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson." he added.

From the couch, Alan smiled at his sons and said quietly, "Or Sonny and Cher."

Don and Charlie looked at one another, puzzled and slightly concerned. "How much of that cold medicine did you take, Dad?" Don asked.

Alan chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

Don accepted the explanation, then added. "We'll be back by supper, Dad. If everything goes well, we'll be home early. Maybe we'll stop at the store and get the stuff we need and Chuck and I will make you some homemade chicken soup."

At both Alan's and Charlie's horrified expressions, Don laughed, throwing his hands in the air in surrender. "Okay, okay, we'll stop at Burnsides' and bring home some nice hot chicken soup for you. How's that?"

Don went to get the paperwork from the table and Charlie grabbed his laptop case.

Alan watched as Charlie stopped at the open door, waiting for Don. The expression on his face took Alan back again to the day in the park, so long ago. Don, unable to penetrate the 3 year olds determination, had eventually relinquished his claim to the wayward ball. Instead of sulking, though, he offered to play catch with Charlie. Their earlier disagreement forgotten, they threw the ball back and forth for hours and Charlie had been delighted. 

Don joined his brother at the door and as they walked out, his hand went to Charlie's shoulder, and Alan sighed with relief when the door closed behind them.

Forty years ago, a heated argument between two brothers had ended in a deeper understanding of each other and the men they had become. Even though this disagreement today between his sons had not been as life altering as the one he had with Joel, Alan sensed a new level of understanding and respect had been reached between them. There would undoubtedly be more disagreements, more arguments. After all they were brothers.

_Things change. Things stay the same. And so it goes. The beat goes on._

Alan shook his head. "Grandpa Levi and Sonny Bono." he mused wryly. "Who would have thought?"

Feeling the weight of the photo album on his lap, Alan return his attention to it, turning the pages slowly again. He stopped suddenly, his breath catching in his throat, as he saw the image on the last page of the book. The image was of him and Joel, taken 10 years ago, at an Eppes reunion. They stood beside each other, laughing, Alan remembered, at something Amos had said. Two brothers, the older one with a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, the younger one looking up, with affection, through dark lashes at his older sibling.

Alan sniffed and wiped his watery eyes with a tissue. "Damn cold." he muttered.

Impulsively, Alan reached for his phone. Closing his eyes in drugged concentration, the number finally came to him and he dialed it quickly. After three rings on the other end, it was answered. "Hello."

"Joel. Hi, it's Alan."

**The End**

A/N; I didn't really want to make this a songfic, so I did not use the lyrics of "The Beat Goes On" in a literal sense. For anyone out there who is not familiar with this song, or for those of you who would just like a refresher, I have included the words below. (please remember, the song was written in 1967)

_Chorus: _The beat goes on, the beat goes on

Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain

La de da de de, la de da de da

_Verse_

Charleston was once the rage, uh huh

History has turned the page, uh huh

The mini skirts the current thing, uh huh

Teenybopper is our newborn king, uh huh

_Chorus_

The grocery store's the super mart, uh huh

Little girls still break their hearts, uh huh

And men still keep on marching off to war

Electrically they keep a baseball score

_Chorus_

Grandmas sit in chairs and reminisce

Boys keep chasing girls to get a kiss

The cars keep going faster all the time

Bums still cry "hey buddy, have you got a dime

_Chorus_


End file.
